


Scars

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Fallout Kink Meme, Kink Meme, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade loves the Courier's scars, perhaps even more than he loves the man himself. (Response to a prompt on the kink meme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

Arcade knows he’s a bad, bad man.

And he’s a bad, bad man because he so blatantly objectifies the Courier. When he lies in bed at night, alone save for the lingering scent of his lover’s musk while the most dangerous man in the Mojave traipses the Wastes—when he is alone, fantasizing and not having to explain his desires to anyone else—he is dreaming about his scars.

He loves those scars. The way they feel under his hands, smooth and hairless against the rest of his skin. He loves caressing them, tasting them with his tongue and using them to explore the Courier’s history. They are memory made flesh, and each time he explores and re-explores the man’s body, he remembers the accompanying stories. Some are small tales, little explanations that the Courier laughs and shrugs off as childhood accidents. Others are proud tattoos of past victories, like the swipe of a Deathclaw raking across his torso.

If Arcade were a good man, he’d claim to love the Courier’s hands. His hands are strong and broad, with the calluses of both gun-handling and world-handling. They are symbols of his strength, but dexterous and nimble enough to pick a lock or work a keyboard. They are very talented hands. And even when those hands grasp him close or twine through his hair, Arcade does not dream of those hands.

Instead, he dreams of those scars. There are the bullet wounds on his scalp, of course, but there are also the hidden wonders tucked beneath his shirt, like the raised keloid mottling on his shoulder that looks vaguely like some sort of sinister reptile. He dreams of breathing in, kissing his skin, and falling through as if that scar is a portal to the innermost layers of the Courier’s psyche, where he can swim, lazily, through his blood and into his soul.

If Arcade were a good lover, he’d claim to love the Courier’s eyes. He has dark, expressive eyes, gleaming with depths like unknown seas. There are people who claim that eyes are windows to the soul, but Arcade is too much of a scientist to believe that nonsense.

The Courier’s scars, however, are certainly windows—they reveal his history better than any book, once one takes the time to decrypt the language. When Arcade kisses the thin scar on his ribs, he smells gunpowder and hears the cry of the hopped-up Fiend that tried taking a machete to the Courier. When Arcade licks the coarse rawness at the Courier’s neck, he feels the phantom chain of a ticking collar, even its ghost-weight pressing heavy as the Courier groans.

Arcade is neither a good man nor a good lover.

But he loves his scars.


End file.
